


the blackest licorice dressed in a candy shell

by feralphoenix



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her more lucid moments, Madoka is pretty sure there is something wrong with this picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the blackest licorice dressed in a candy shell

**Author's Note:**

> _(Their bird wings severed like trophies_ – i’ve been having these weird thoughts lately)

When she looks in the mirror (never straight on—but if out of the corner of her eye) she sees her eyes flash gold.

When people ask for the health representative, she sits up straight and turns towards the speaker, even though her memories tell her that she’s never even been the health rep. She’s not used to being back in Mitakihara at all, and yet there aren’t any health reps in America. She’s not sure where that instinct comes from.

She feels like there’s something, some terribly urgent something she’s forgetting to do. If she doesn’t hurry and remember, the consequences will be dire. Her vision bends and warps if she tries to think of it straight on, she’s learned—so she’s left probing it in the corners of her mind, like testing a toothache.

She has terrible, pounding headaches that make her slump against the school walls. They usually happen when she’s trying to figure it all out.

A dark figure stands before her whenever they do.

“Homura-chan,” she says. She’s not sure enough to do anything about it, but Mama’s always said to trust her instincts about people, and the way that Homura looks at her makes her feel as unsafe as if she’s being catcalled late at night.

Her new classmate smiles. The lipstick she wears is a mild, demure color, but it looks red as blood when she’s backlit by the school’s fluorescent bulbs. The way that the light glints off this girl’s gaudy earring makes stakes of pain pound through her skull.

She can’t afford to waste time here, but even now that certainty is evaporating into the dull gray haze of her migraine. She slides from the wall to the floor and prays vainly that someone other than this unnerving girl will be the one to take her to the nurse for once.


End file.
